


Decay

by GodofWorms



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Blanket Permission, Brutality, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Magic, Dark Soft, Dark fluff, Death and the Maiden, Dubious Consent, Escape, F/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Obsession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-07 10:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14668827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodofWorms/pseuds/GodofWorms
Summary: Sansa hears that Jon has died fighting White Walkers, so she is not expecting it when he rides up on his horse to Winterfell. Her excitement soon gives way to confusion and wariness as she discovers he's not quite like she remembers. Something is different about him, and Sansa is more afraid of that than she's ever been.





	1. Jon's Return

**Author's Note:**

> Song mood - you should see me in a crown by Billie Eilish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This type of story has already been done to death, but I'm in love with the concept of Jon coming back from the dead dark-tinged. Keep the tags in mind, though :)))

Sansa's eyes roved over the letter, her stomach sick and hollow.  _Not another dead brother_ , she thought. Lord Commander Snow, dead beyond the Wall, killed in the battle with the White Walkers. She and Jon were never close, but she had so little family left - maybe none at all, since news of Arya's and Bran's survival was still mere rumour - but she'd known for certain that Jon was alive and manning the Wall. It had always been her intention to write to him as soon as she took back Winterfell from Ramsay. She sent the raven days ago, but she hadn't expected this sort of a reply, one not from Jon, but someone called Tormund. She hadn't even known the White Walkers were real. She dropped the letter on the table when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she called, her voice frail.

Petyr entered into the Lord's chambers, softly closing the door behind him. Sansa had another reason to feel sick. She already knew what he was there for. They'd been talking about it for months, long before they took back Winterfell, but she'd declined every advance. She didn't want to marry Littlefinger. She knew the kind of person he was, knew that he wanted to rule the Seven Kingdoms, that he needed to marry her in order to do it, that he saw her as her mother instead of herself. She knew it all, but without his help, she wouldn't be free back at home, and it was obvious Littlefinger felt she owed him for it. Admittedly, she felt she did, too. But she'd been holding out hope for something else ... perhaps for her family to return, or what was left of them. She would have been safe that way, never having to marry anyone again. But now Jon was dead. Sansa had become the eldest Stark sibling, quite possibly the only remaining one. She had no hope left.

"Hello, Lord Baelish."

He bowed his head, stepping forward.

"My lady."

She had the mad urge to hide the letter from him, to never let him know there was no one left to protect her. But Littlefinger didn't seem interested in anything on the desk. There was only one thing on his mind.

"I had hoped we might talk," he said. "It's been days now since you've made Ramsay Bolton your prisoner. You're safe and sound at home, nothing left to harm you or take from you. It's time to think seriously about making an alliance--"

"I've been considering your proposal," she said, resigned to her fate. If Bran and Arya were alive, and if they returned, they should have a safe place to come back to. Sansa could give them that, at least ... some form of stability.

He didn't look surprised.

"Have you?" he asked, a smile creeping onto his face. He continued toward her. "And so you have decided...?"

Briefly, Sansa considered backing out. It took her long enough to answer that Littlefinger's smile faltered. Just slightly.

"I'll marry you," she said, her voice stronger than she felt.

Littlefinger looked victorious, coming to stand at her side where she still remained seated. He didn't say anything when he leaned down, and though Sansa wanted to do nothing less than she wanted to kiss him, she let him touch her shoulder and press his lips to hers. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to kiss him back, seeing Ramsay, Joffrey, Tyrion all flashing behind her eyes. This was her life. She would never be free. She always escaped one monster only to be ensnared by another. When Littlefinger finally pulled back, hand heavy on her shoulder, Sansa softened her features so that he wouldn't see the way she'd winced. Of all the monsters to give her life to, Petyr was the lesser one. He'd not hurt her the way the others had.

"I'm very pleased to hear it, my lady," he said quietly. "I'll make the preparations."

Sansa's lips parted. He meant to marry her at once.

"It doesn't have to be immediate, does it?" she asked quickly, swallowing when he'd turned. He didn't look like he agreed.

"I think it's in our best interests to move ahead now, my lady," he said. "Now that you have Winterfell, there will be others who will want your allegiance. I see no reason to wait."

Sansa wracked her brain for something to say that might change his mind, might convince him to give her at least a few months, but she was coming up blank. So she just nodded mutely, and he was satisfied.

"I'll leave you alone, then. Sansa."

She closed her eyes for a moment when he turned, hating her name in his voice, hating this, hating everything. But she opened her eyes again, giving him a small smile when he met her eyes just before stepping through the door. And then she was alone again. It would be okay. She'd been through worse than Petyr Baelish. She had  _survived_ worse than Petyr Baeish. She was home now, something he made possible for her. A life with him didn't have to be as bad as she imagined. After some time passed, she'd grow used to it. She'd learn how to be happy anyway, or at least as happy as was possible with someone like him.

She picked up the letter again, holding the edges in each hand as she leaned on the desk to read his name, to read 'Jon Snow' and 'killed' in the same sentence. Gods, how foolish she'd been to think he wouldn't leave her, too. Wasn't that always how it worked? The moment she started to hope again, the moment she needed someone, they were taken away from her. She was tired of this now. She was tired of hoping. It might be easier for her from now on if she just stopped altogether.

* * *

It was midday when Sansa walked from the Entrance Hall to the courtyard door, intending to oversee reparations on a burned tower in the North-Eastern corner of Winterfell. There was a sudden commotion outside in the yard, followed by several guards flinging the door open and startling Sansa to a halt.

"What's going on?" she asked, the men hurtling toward her.

"A rider, m'lady," one of them said.

"Just the one," said another.

"We thought it was a travelling merchant, but--"

"It's not. It's someone else."

She could hear the excitement in their voices.

"Who is it?" Sansa asked, glancing at the open door into the courtyard where guards were running about.

The men were silent for a short moment, most looking ready to burst with the news.

"Your brother, m'lady," said the first, and Sansa's breath caught. "He's riding from the North."

Bran. There had been rumours that he was North, somewhere beyond the Wall, but Sansa hadn't known for sure until right then. He'd survived, somehow, against all odds. And now he'd come home. Bran had come home.

"Open the gate," she said in a rush, moving through the crowd assembled around her so she could run to the entrance, her skirts held in her hands.

The men followed her out, one calling out her command, and Sansa arrived at the gate just as it was opening, just as it struck her that it couldn't be Bran, because Bran was a cripple who couldn't ride a horse, and the guards had said there was only one rider.

The horse trotted through the gates, Jon sitting astride it, his hair wilder than the last time she'd seen it. Sansa thought she was imagining things. She blinked rapidly to dispel the image, to see who it truly was, but the face hadn't changed. The guards had told her it was her brother, though, so she couldn't be the only one who'd seen him. Perhaps the letter telling of his death was a farce. She had no idea why that would be, but it was clearly a lie. Jon wasn't dead. Jon was there. He'd spotted her by then and had halted his horse, staring at her while she stared back. Her mouth had gone dry. There was no mistaking it, it was Jon. He looked different, but she would recognize him anywhere.

When he dropped down from his mount, his eyes never leaving hers, she launched herself at him and wrapped her arms tight around his shoulders, refusing to let go. She filtered through her memories to find one that could compare to the utter relief she was feeling, but she'd never felt anything like it. For the first time in a very long time, she felt that everything was going to be okay.

 _Alive_ , she'd thought, a breath of air in her mind, like she had finally been able to breathe after years of holding her breath.  _He's alive. I'm not alone anymore. He'll protect me. I'm safe_.

It took her a bit longer to register that he wasn't hugging her back. He wasn't exactly pushing her away, either, but he didn't seem pleased to see her. Insecure, she pulled back, feeling foolish for imagining he'd be glad to see his least favourite sibling. But he was still looking at her when she met his eyes. She felt a sudden and slight pressure in the back of her head; an odd feeling, like her head was being opened and her mind was spilling out. She shivered at the sensation, uncomfortable as it was, but she was still distracted by Jon and her heart clenching in her chest. She was so happy he was back, but he didn't care about her.

But then, very suddenly, his lips twitched in a tiny show of a smile, something that looked almost awkward on his face, like he had a hard time making any expression. Come to think of it, he'd appeared quite emotionless from the moment she saw him atop his horse.

"Hello, Sansa," he said, his voice a lot deeper than the last she'd heard him. "It's great to see you."

She was relieved once more, relieved to be wrong, and she wanted to hug him again, but didn't for fear of making him uncomfortable after the first one. No sooner had she thought it, though, did he step forward himself, his arms coming around her middle, tight and unyielding. Foolishly, she felt that it was like he was responding to her thoughts. She might have been shocked at his sudden show of emotion had she not been so starved for it herself. So she wrapped her arms about his shoulders again, thinking  _family_ and  _safe_ and held on for as long as he held on to her.

* * *

Sansa sat with Jon at the head table in the empty hall, the pressure in her head gone by now. There were torches aflame on the walls and candles flickering on the table close to them, but the room felt dim. It was growing dark outside, and the darkness seemed to have seeped into the castle. She was in her chair, leaned back with one hand on the table, her fingers drumming an idle rhythm, while Jon sat next to her, eating a dish of thick rice stew. Something about him was very, very different. She hadn't been of a mind to analyze it at first, happy as she was to see him, but she could see the difference now. It was palpable.

In the past, Jon always had a stoic look about him. She'd seen him happy, certainly, had seen him smile and laugh and joke with her siblings, but there was always a deep, sullen look beneath the surface. It came out around Sansa's mother especially and during those occasional family suppers where he was not allowed to sit with the other Stark children. That is to say Sansa was used to Jon's broody personality. She was not used to the way he was now.

Instead of sullen, he looked empty; instead of broody, he was blank. He was much more intense than she remembered, his mere presence intimidating everyone who came near - including her, though she wouldn't admit it - and his grey eyes, how stormy and full they'd been in the past, were dull. She feared that if she looked too long into them, they would suck out her soul and let him have it instead. It was a baseless thought, but it still made her throat tighten. She'd never been afraid of Jon before, but she couldn't help to be now, if just slightly. Something had changed him ... something dark and sinister and evil. She was not sure she would be safe with him anymore, despite that he'd done nothing to make her think it. Just being around him ... being around him felt different.

"What happened to you?" she asked quietly. "There was a letter from the Night's Watch saying you'd died beyond the Wall."

He glanced lightly at her, but didn't halt his eating.

"Hmm," he said, unconcerned.

She frowned, finding his relaxation unsettling.

"What really happened, then?" she asked. "It must have been something serious if the Night's Watch thought you were dead."

"I was killed by a group of wights in the battle with the White Walkers."

Sansa's lips parted, her mind awash with confusion. Of course that couldn't be true. He was alive, sitting right next to her.

"That doesn't make any sense," she said quietly, as though he would yell at her for not believing him.

But when he answered, his voice was level, as light as ever ... hollow-sounding.

"I know it doesn't," he said, still eating. Her fingers had stopped drumming on the table. "A red priest brought me back."

It was a preposterous statement. Resurrection was not possible. Sansa swallowed, changing topic.

"What about your vows?" she asked him. "It's a crime to break them."

He'd deserted the Watch, after all.

"The vows expire once you die," he said, giving her an intense look that made her want to cover herself. "I'm not breaking them."

He went back to eating, nearly done now, and Sansa didn't think she wanted to be around him when he finished. He was saying mad things, things she didn't think she could listen to any longer.

"Well, all the rooms are still the same," she said, rising. "You can have your old one, or pick a new one. I know yours is rather small."

She started to leave, but his voice stopped her.

"You were married off to Ramsay Bolton, weren't you?" he asked.

She was frozen for a moment before turning back to him. He was focused on his food, scraping the bowl.

"I was," she said, embarrassed by how weak her voice had suddenly gone.

Jon didn't appear to notice. He still wasn't looking at her.

"I can't imagine he didn't hurt you."

The way he'd said it made her want to cry, as though it was a simple thing to speak of rather than the worst time of her life. He shouldn't be so insensitive.

"Well, you imagine right," she said sharply. 

Sansa halfway turned to leave when Jon's chair scraped against the ground as he stood. He was coming toward her, so she stopped, not wanting to be rude. Although she hoped he didn't want to say anything more of Ramsay. She didn't want to talk about Ramsay.

But when Jon approached her, standing a bit too close for comfort, that was what he did.

"Tell me."

She knew it was a command even though his voice hadn't changed at all.

"Tell you what?" she asked quietly, finding it a little harder to breathe, his proximity filling her with unease.

"All of it," he said calmly, his gaze so strong on hers that even though she wanted to look away, she couldn't, afraid of what he might do. "Everything he did to you."

When her eyes dropped, it was unintentional. It happened purely out of the discomfort of looking at him for so long. She hadn't meant to look back up, but her eyes snapped up anyway, as if forced.

"Tell me, Sansa."

"I don't want to," she said, meek.

There was that pressure again in her head, like her skull had cracked open, pouring her thoughts and feelings and fears out into the world. Jon asked her again. She didn't want to say it, but she was scared now not to.

"He ... forced me," she said, thinking of the night they consummated their marriage, the first night she'd been with anyone. How horrible it had been, how horrible it was every night after. She thought of the way he beat her, whipped her, used all manner of torture devices on her, of how gleeful he became as her screams grew louder. The brands he'd given her with hot metal were still there on her skin, still hidden beneath her clothes. She hated the shapes they were in ... hated to even think about it.

"He beat me," she said, not giving him the details. It was shameful, somehow, to tell him ... as though she was the one who should be ashamed.

But she was. She was ashamed now and that was Ramsay's fault. The things he'd forced inside her ... they were meant to cut and tear her insides, meant to hurt her and make her bleed, and they always did. He liked raping her best after using one of those weapons. The pain was unbearable for her, wounds that were pulled at and irritated immediately after he'd given them, but he liked it when she cried and screamed and thrashed. Most of all, he liked the way he was covered in her blood after he'd spent inside her. She had felt those wounds in her body for weeks after she'd escaped Ramsay and found Petyr again. Sometimes she felt them still. Ramsay had thought of using a fire poker once, had threatened to push it up through her anus, but he changed his mind, knowing it would kill her, and not wanting her dead yet.

But she couldn't tell Jon any of those things. She couldn't make herself say it, not to him or anyone. Apparently, though, he had quite easily given up on asking her. The pressure in her head vanished all at once, the sensation noticeable enough that it shocked her into meeting Jon's eyes. His face was impassive, but there was something there in his gaze that hadn't been there before she'd spoken, something that made her feel more afraid than she'd been in a long time. She couldn't describe what she saw ... it was like an image, though it wasn't ... they were merely his eyes, but the longer she looked, the more certain she was that a monster, black and grisly and horrendous was crawling from the depths of his soul ... crawling from within and coming to the surface of his eyes.

Sansa looked down immediately, wide-eyed and in terror, her breaths shaky. Jon said nothing, his body brushing her arm as he moved gently around her to the door out of the hall. Sansa remained where she stood after she heard him leave, unable to move, unable even to lift her head. It was minutes before her legs started working again, and when they did, she left the hall in a mad dash to get to her chambers. She ran and ran and ran, not talking to anyone, not answering their questions of concern as she sped by. She felt she was in danger, in danger from the monster in her brother's eyes, and the only safe place was her chambers. She couldn't explain it, didn't even want to think about it, but she didn't stop running until she reached them. She shut the door hard and locked it, leaning back against it, chest heaving.

* * *

Sansa hadn't been able to sleep for hours after she'd retired to bed, hadn't seen anyone despite the fact that both Brienne and Petyr, as well as her handmaiden, had come to her room. She pretended not to be inside, afraid even to open the door. Much later, however, when she'd been drifting off to sleep, someone screamed. It was a scream of agony, but when she'd jolted awake, she realized it was in her mind. Someone was screaming in her mind ... a man, a man's voice. It was horrible. It churned her stomach and made her want to scream herself. She clamped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, scrambling onto her stomach, trying to make it stop. It went on and on, so vivid and real that she thought it must be happening outside. But whenever she removed her hands from her ears, it became more and more obvious that there was no sound but her crackling fire. She listened hard, listening around the screaming in her head to hear the screaming in real life, but there was none. She smacked her head over and over, trying to get it to stop, faintly aware that the voice of the man was a familiar one. She must have been dreaming. Was she having a night terror?

Finally, blessedly, the screaming stopped, suddenly and all at once, as though it had been cut off. Carefully, Sansa pulled her hands from her ears, listening. She was losing her mind. She was going mad, she had to be. Should she tell someone? No, who could she tell? What a stupid thing to think. She couldn't just _tell_ someone she was going insane. They would never let her rule Winterfell. But what if it was real? What if it wasn't in her head and she'd only imagined that it was? It was a pained scream, one like she'd given when Ramsay tortured her. Then her blood ran cold. Maybe Ramsay had escaped and was torturing someone ... what if someone set him free? What if he was coming for her? She should call a guard, tell them to check on him, to make sure he hadn't escaped. But she was too scared to leave her room. She should have had someone stationed outside her door, she should have asked Brienne - _why hadn't she asked?_

The quiet steps outside in the hall jarred her from her thoughts. Sansa halted her breathing, listening as hard as she could and staring wide-eyed at the crack beneath her door.

 _Please, no_ , she thought desperately as they continued to approach, echoing in the hall. She was starting to cry, but she clapped her hands over her mouth to make sure no sound came out.  _Please, please, no. Not Ramsay, not again, not again!_

She saw the shadow beneath her door, alight from the torches in the hall, and then the steps stopped, right there outside her room.

She'd kill herself. If Ramsay had escaped and he was there, if he'd come for her, she would jump from her window. She didn't care anymore. Whoever it was, Ramsay or someone else, they were just standing there, doing nothing. Why were they doing nothing? Then the door handle clicked, as though whoever was on the other side was trying to open it. Was it Ramsay? Oh, Gods, what if it was Ramsay? But she locked it. She knew she locked it. She tried to calm herself down even further. It couldn't be Ramsay, he couldn't have escaped, it was more likely Petyr--Petyr was trying to come to her in the dead of night, it wasn't Ramsay, it couldn't be Ramsay--

The door handle rattled more forcefully. Sansa dared not even breathe, though it was incredibly difficult, for her heart was beating so hard it hurt and she felt the building panic in her lungs from not enough air. That persistent pressure from before snapped back in her head in an instant. She whimpered, unable to keep the noise in, for the cracking in her mind had been painful that time. She tightened her hands over her mouth, so angry at herself for making a sound, as though that would be her undoing. She was afraid to close her eyes, afraid to make another sound, but she slid from her bed anyway, as silently as she could. Her feet gently touched the floor. The figure remained outside her door, but didn't try the handle again. The pressure in her head was insistent, and she suddenly felt an insane urge that didn't feel like her own, pressing her to open the door. She wouldn't do it. The urge grew stronger even as she edged her way back and toward the window, flicked open the lock, and pushed it open.

Though it was getting harder and harder to push away the nonsensical impulse to open the door, Sansa fought with everything she had to do just that. She'd jump before she let Ramsay in. She was ready to jump. If the only way to be rid of that monster was to die, then she'd do it. She backed into the window, sitting on the edge, lifting up one leg--

The pressure in her head deadened so swiftly that she gasped, and the steps retreated at once, far quicker than they'd come. Sansa was still afraid to breathe. She was still thinking it over and over in her mind, that she would jump, that she would do it if she had to. It was like her brain had broken and she couldn't shut it off. It was a long time before she felt safe enough to move away from the window, though she left it open just in case. She climbed into her bed first, burrowing beneath the furs, but then she kicked them off and ran to the door, making sure it was truly locked. It was stupid to think it wasn't, because she'd heard the intruder trying to get in, but she was paranoid. She wouldn't be able to sleep unless she was certain.

But that was a baseless thought. She couldn't sleep anyway, no matter how hard she tried.

It was a while later that the barely detectable pressure in her head finally faded away completely, moments after Sansa's fear fully dissolved and she stopped contemplating leaping from her window.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, the sky a deep blue as dawn approached, there was a pounding at her door. Sansa's eyes shot open, her body all at once alert and alive. She hadn't been asleep, but she'd been trying. She'd managed to calm down enough to do so after finally convincing herself that it wasn't Ramsay after the figure left. It was probably only Petyr. She was still unsure, though. She glanced at her window.

She would do it, she would jump. If it was Ramsay, she would jump.

She shook the thought from her head, promising herself it wasn't Ramsay. It was still far too difficult to make herself leave her bed, though.

The banging came again. She didn't answer.

"Lady Sansa? Lady Sansa!"

Brienne.

Sansa crawled off her bed with a meek call to wait just a moment, and she hurried to the door, unlocking it and yanking it open. She could have hugged the woman.

"It wasn't you, was it?" Brienne asked, her voice low, but insistent.

Sansa was sure the expression on her face made her look stupid, but it seemed to convince Brienne that Sansa had no idea what she was talking about.

"It wasn't, then," said Brienne, looking a mixture of confused and pleased.

"What wasn't?" Sansa asked. "Has something happened?"

Brienne appraised her for a moment before nodding.

"Get dressed, my lady. There's something you need to see.

Sansa didn't get dressed, however, for she was far too curious to waste the time. Instead, she threw on a night cloak and let Brienne lead her out of the castle and to the kennels. Sansa's steps faltered as they neared, realizing their destination, but she said nothing and kept following. Brienne glanced back at her only once as they reached the gates.

They were unlocked, one opened and creaking gently in the wind while the locking chains hung from it, trailing on the ground. The dogs were all still secure in their kennels, not a single one had been let out. And there was Ramsay, exactly where she'd left him ... sort of. Well ... not quite at all.

The position was the same, but everything else was gruesome. The chair she'd left him in was still there, though knocked over onto its side. Ramsay was naked, and he'd been clothed the last she'd seen him. Instead of the chair, he was now held up by a fire poker, the dull end buried in the dirt ground of the kennels, the sharp end impaling him; through his anus, she imagined. Sansa could scarcely breathe. Had she told Jon about this? She hadn't. She was sure she hadn't, they had been mere thoughts. She hadn't said a word.

And yet....

Ramsay's skin was cut and bleeding, some of the marks very reminiscent of what he'd left on her, brands he'd left on her arms, legs, and back with burning metal. Sansa's breaths quickened. She was losing her mind. She must have told Jon. She was so certain she'd only thought of what he did to her, but it was impossible that this was a coincidence. This had to be Jon's doing. She must have ... she must have told him. She didn't tell him, but she  _must_ have.

Ramsay looked worse still than that. His head and arms were now unattached. One arm lay on the ground next to him, flayed, and the other was missing, though the dog nearest the kennel gate was chewing on something Sansa couldn't see and was sure she didn't want to. And Ramsay's head, his severed head, was hanging from the front of his crotch, his mouth opened and forced around what could only be his manhood. She didn't know how his head hadn't fallen to the ground, so she stepped forward on shaking legs to observe. She still didn't understand when she saw, though ... it looked like the skin was all melted together, his mouth fused to his own cock. Her eyes darted down and she realized his testicles were gone, too. They looked like they'd been ripped off. The flaps of skin that hung from his neck were uneven, too, and Sansa knew his head had not been severed cleanly by a blade. It looked more like hands had done it. Like hands had torn it straight off his body, the same as they'd done to his testicles.

Sansa opened her mouth to ask what they did with Jon, but then she snapped it shut in the next second. They didn't know who the culprit was, did they? Brienne even asked Sansa if she was the one. But Sansa was certain it was Jon. There didn't seem to be any other explanation.

"We don't know who's done it, my lady," said Brienne only moments later when Sansa stepped outside, away from Ramsay's disgusting corpse. "No one saw anyone or heard anything from the kennels."

But Sansa had, hadn't she? Was that what it was, the screaming in her head? Was she hearing Jon doing this to Ramsay? It had to be. Those were his screams in her mind. She'd recognized them at the time, but couldn't quite place them. But of course the idea that she heard him being tortured while no one else did was something that made no logical sense. There was nothing about any of this that made any sense, how Jon had maimed Ramsay in the ways Ramsay had maimed her, how she heard the screaming and no one else did, how Jon knew the details of what Ramsay did to her without her telling him ... unless she was losing her mind and she really did tell him. But she'd been so certain she hadn't said it out loud....

But it was good, then, that no one else suspected Jon. Sansa certainly wouldn't give him away. Ramsay deserved it. He deserved all of it. She was just sorry she wasn't there to witness it, though she didn't think she could have stomached all that. It was hard to believe _Jon_ of all people would be capable of such atrocities. The Jon she knew was soft and kind and quiet, though she was already sensing that the Jon she knew and the Jon who returned were not the same. But he was still her family, even if he was different than she remembered. She didn't have much of a family left. She wouldn't divest herself of the remainder.

And didn't she herself want Ramsay to suffer? Wouldn't she have hurt him badly? She'd planned on feeding him to the dogs, alive and breathing. That wasn't a kind death, either. 

"Fine," she said eventually, her voice hard. "Let his dogs have him." They were starving, after all. She looked at the one closest to the gate, chewing sounds still coming from its kennel. "Not that one."

Brienne didn't even look alarmed.

"How would you have me do that, my lady?"

"Have someone chop him up," Sansa said, not looking at his corpse again. "With a sword. Not butchering blades. Obviously." She wouldn't want their food to have even a chance of being tainted with Ramsay.

"Yes, my lady," said Brienne, and then she left her.

Sansa turned and walked back toward the castle much slower than when she'd come. She wasn't sure how to feel. Confused, certainly, about so many things. But about Ramsay ... she was satisfied in a sick sort of way. She wasn't sad for him at all. Seeing brutalities on anyone was difficult for Sansa to stomach, even on him, but he was a monster. That fact made it easier to digest. Good riddance.

But if Jon had done it, and no one else knew, should she tell Petyr? He'd never seen her skin, so he wouldn't be able to make the connection between how identical her scars were to the marks given to Ramsay, but surely he would suspect Jon. But Sansa also wasn't sure she could trust Littlefinger with this. He would have all her family killed if he had his way, she was sure. That way, she would have no one else to lean on but him.

So she'd keep it to herself, then. Only she and Jon need know.

Sansa crossed the courtyard in a hurry, trying not to look at anyone lest she be called away for duty. She didn't think she could concentrate on anything at the moment, and she was quite exhausted after the night she had. Yet, she was too giddy to be able to fall asleep immediately anyway. Her eyes were drawn up suddenly, compelled to look. Above on the ramparts, Jon was standing alone with his hands clamped around the railings. He looked impeccably clean, his face void of all emotion, and he was watching her. That strange pressure appeared again in her head, gentle and painless this time, as though it was being careful not to hurt her again. Which was utterly absurd; as though a headache could have intentions. She was sure she should ask a maester about it. But it disappeared quickly this time, just as her sick pleasure at what happened to Ramsay was fading.

Sansa swallowed and dropped her eyes from Jon's as she lifted her skirts, ascending the stairs to the courtyard entrance of the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading everyone! Constructive criticism is very welcome! As well, if there were parts that you enjoyed, I'd love to hear about those, too. Of course, only comment if you want to; please don't feel obligated :)) xx


	2. A Kind Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Sorry this took so long. My original outline for the chapter just wasn't working, so I had to scrap it and start again.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for all your support last chapter with the comments, kudos, subs, and bookmarks. It truly means a lot, so thank you xx

  _~ In my body, I have a master. I bow down when she comes around. ~_  

* * *

Maester Wolkan examined Sansa for only a few minutes in his lab before determining milk of the poppy would be a sufficient remedy for the strange feeling in her head.

"It's a simple headache," he said, moving aside tonics and tinctures and dried herbs on his medicine shelves. "A lack of sleep and the stress of undergoing several changes at once is not a kind combination." He grabbed a glass bottle of murky white liquid, giving it a small shake. "An ounce of this when the pain comes on should do the trick."

When he handed it to her, she took it, glancing briefly at Jon who stood impassively behind her. She'd mentioned her discomforts to him, too, but he'd seemed just as unbothered as the maester.

"It feels different than a simple headache," she said, turning back to Maester Wolkan. "It feels ... I know it's strange to say, but it's like my skull is being split open."

Maester Wolkan came closer and gingerly touched the back of her head, his fingers pulsing along her scalp before pulling back.

"Everything appears to be in tact."

Sansa knew when she was being patronized. But maybe she deserved it. More than likely, she was just being dramatic.

She nodded, clutching the bottle and rising from her seat.

"Thank you, Maester."

Jon went to the door without a word and opened it, waiting for her.

Maester Wolkan gave her a kind smile.

"Come back should things worsen."

"Of course," she said, lightly bowing her head.

When Sansa passed Jon and left the room, he said nothing, falling into step beside her. He'd also told her not to be concerned about her head, saying he was sure the pain was harmless. But Sansa was having a hard time trusting Jon since his return. He felt like a stranger.

She glanced at his profile, just for a moment, and looked forward again. Something was off about him. She didn't know what horrors he'd faced at the Wall, but they must have been terrible indeed. It was difficult to reconcile the man who'd returned with the boy who left.

The poets would say he had become hardened upon his return, broken and battle-weary, weaving his story into one with romantic, heroic undertones as they tended to do. But all Sansa could come up with was that he seemed like someone dead. He was alive, yet life was missing from him. He'd told her, hadn't he? He'd told her that he'd been murdered and brought back. Maybe it was possible. Maybe he was telling her the truth.

They walked for a while longer before she found the nerve to speak, to inquire again about his revival.

"Did you..." she started, but her courage failed her. And anyway, it wasn't like he'd give her a different answer just because she'd asked twice.

"Did I what?" he asked, sounding like he knew her question.

She changed tactics. There was no need to bring it up right now.

"Did you settle in well?"

He glanced at her. "Are you sure that's what you wish to know, Sansa?"

She frowned. What had he been expecting?

"We haven't talked about it," she said. "That it's different here than it was before."

He looked away again.

"It's quiet," he allowed. She'd say he was morose, but that seemed his default setting lately. "It used to be louder."

Sansa's heart fell at the reminder. It was something from which she'd been trying to distract herself.

It had been so long since Winterfell had really been her home, since she'd been safe there. And because her mind had been so occupied with other things in all that time, she'd assumed she'd accepted her parents' deaths and the deaths of her siblings.

But now that she _was_ back home, and she  _was_ safe, she found she was not over them at all. Her grief arose when it wished and left when it wished, entirely out of her control. It had been hovering in the back of her mind for days now, demanding to be acknowledged right from the moment she and Lord Baelish acquired Winterfell from Ramsay. Sansa had been trying very hard not to feel it. But that was impossible when she was in this place whose halls used to be graced by the feet of her loved ones.

It  _was_ quiet, as Jon had said; lonely. She missed them all, how full of life and youth and innocence they'd been. Sansa would go back to that time in an instant if given the chance.

Once, the laughter of her siblings filled the halls and brought life into the stone. When Sansa thought of the sound now, it wasn't full; it didn't fill her with warmth. It was cracked and void. It sounded more like an scream. She hadn't known before that sounds could decay. Unless she was simply imagining her most recent life here, the one Ramsay had given her. Screams did tend to echo through the castle back then.

But Jon was back now. A fraction of her family had returned. Things were going to be different. Sansa was trying very hard to convince herself of that. It was just that ... whenever he was near, she couldn't help but feel a threat. It was as if he exuded hostility. It made her wary of trying to connect with him, despite it being all she really wanted. Not that she thought he would hurt her, but ... she wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't, as much as it pained her to think. He was just so different.

Everything was so different.

But regardless of all that had changed, Sansa still had hope. Jon would want their siblings back, too, wouldn't he? She had no reason to believe otherwise.

"I deployed scouts to look for Bran and Arya," she said as they walked, mere paces from her chambers now. "It was days ago now, as soon as I was able."

Jon gave no indication that he was listening, but she could feel, somehow, that he was.

"I received a letter already," she went on. "Someone who looked like Arya was spotted arriving on the docks of King's Landing. And Bran's whereabouts are unknown, but they're searching. It hasn't been that long."

Of course, she couldn't be sure that the lead on Arya was not a false one. Her scouts had not yet arrived in King's Landing, so all speak of Arya's supposed appearance was only overheard by one of her scouts, not witnessed by him. So there was likely no truth to it, but she thought Jon should know anyway.

He was quiet for a moment.

"What of Rickon?"

Her steps faltered, crimson tresses falling softly in front of her when she turned her head to see him. Noticing her stagger, he slowed to a stop, too, facing her.

He didn't know. But how could he?

Sansa swallowed, eyes burning as she held back tears. It wasn't that long ago. She didn't want to talk about it.

"Rickon's not ... he's dead, Jon," she said. Jon had already been quite frozen, but he seemed to still even further. "Ramsay killed him."

Jon's mouth clamped shut, his eyes hooding.

"When?" he asked, voice immediately laced with hostility.

"Many moons ago," she said, as though that made the burden any easier to bear. "He was already here when I arrived, hiding in the crypts."

"So?" Jon prompted, voice carefully controlled. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure you'd really want to know-"

"Tell me," he demanded, and Sansa found herself cowering.

"I tried to escape with him," she said timidly. "It had been so easy to leave the grounds, I hadn't realized..." she trailed off, heart aching, remembering taking Rickon's hand and promising him - lying to him - that everything was going to be all right. "It was a trap. Ramsay knew we would try to escape, he set it all up. He had us chased through the forest by his hounds, and when they caught us ... when they caught us, he shot Rickon through the heart with an arrow, and then he left him there and took me back to the castle."

_Dragged me by the hair while I cried and thrashed and screamed, told me he thought he trained me better than that ... tortured me for long enough that I wished he'd killed me, too._

The thin flesh beneath Jon's eye twitched as he looked away.

"Would that I could have known that before."

She knew what he meant. He wanted to punish Ramsay further. It had been a full day since he'd murdered him, and Sansa still hadn't brought it up. They hadn't spoken of it at all. But she wanted to know. She wanted to know how he did it.

"I'm not sure you could have made him suffer more than you did," she said, testing to see his reaction.

Jon's eyes lifted slowly to hers, his face still tilted down. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but the look unsettled her, rage contained beneath. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he could have done worse.

"Take a rest, Sansa," he said, moving around her to her door to open it. "I'll wake you if you're needed."

Sansa moved slowly into the room, nervous. Was he not even going to try to deny it? Was this how he was going to admit it was him?

When he wordlessly turned to leave, Sansa stopped him with a hand on his arm, speaking before she could lose her courage.

"How did you know what Ramsay did to me?"

He looked at her, saying nothing. But Sansa couldn't allow his silence. She needed to figure him out. He was the only person around who she was supposed to be able to trust without doubting, but she couldn't trust him, and she hated it.

She gently pulled him back into the room, and he came willingly. Though she wasn't exactly comfortable being in a closed space with him while she brought this up, she closed the door behind them anyway, not wanting anyone to hear should he confess.

Sansa swallowed and quickly released him, moving to the side.

"You did things to him that he did to me," she said, a little breathless. "Or that he wanted to."

Jon's gaze was even and unblinking, unfeeling.

"You told me about it," he said.

It would have been so easy to give in to her unease and drop the subject, but she had to know.

"No, I didn't," she insisted, resisting the urge to take a step back from his darkening gaze. "I didn't say it out loud, I only thought it."

"Do you think I can read minds, Sansa?"

She didn't say anything. Of course that wasn't possible. She dropped her gaze, her brow knitting lightly together.

"You told me how he hurt you," he said, "so I showed him what it felt like."

She didn't remember telling him. All she could remember was thinking it. She told him that now, believing he was hiding something from her.

"Your headaches must be affecting your memory," he said.

Sansa's lips parted, her posture softening. Right then, she was feeling very stupid. Of course that could be an option. There were probably lots of things she wasn't considering. She didn't really know of what she was accusing Jon anyway. What was she even thinking?

Jon's eyes flitted momentarily to the bottle she was holding protectively in front of her.

"How's your head now?" he asked.

Sansa looked at the bottle, too.

"It's fine," she said quietly, turning to walk to the table in the center of the room, setting it down. "It doesn't hurt at the moment."

"Drink some," he said firmly. "So it doesn't hurt if it comes back."

"And become delirious?" she asked. He knew the side effects of milk of the poppy, he should know better than to encourage her onto it. Then she gave him a teasing smile. "You know, you'd better hope the headaches stop."

Jon was slow to respond, looking her over, trying to assess her.

"Why's that?"

"Because if they don't," she said, "and I have to take _this_ ," she nodded to the bottle, "you'd be the one stuck having to take care of me. Imagine all the inane ramblings you'd have to suffer through. Not something you'd want."

He was silent, just watching.

"No," he agreed after a moment. "Not at all."

All at once, as though conversation of it had summoned it, a dull ache built in Sansa's head until it hurt enough that she winced, at which point it leveled out.

"What is it?" Jon asked.

"Nothing," she murmured, embarrassed to admit defeat so quickly.

She sighed as the pressure faded to a quiet, painless sensation.

"Your head hurts again?" he asked, clearly aware of the answer.

He wasn't smiling, but she thought he might like to. He certainly appeared satisfied enough.

Sansa rolled her eyes and grabbed the bottle, uncorking it.

"Well, I'm sorry for what might transpire in the next little while," she said, taking a few large gulps of the bitter liquid, face scrunching at the taste. Her voice was a little rougher when she added, "And every other time I drink this."

She corked the bottle and set it back down.

"I forgive you," Jon said softly.

It was a moment before Sansa could speak again, feeling foolish for even thinking of expressing gratitude over Jon committing a murder, but it must have been something he did for her, as he'd said it was. He was on her side, wasn't he?

Was he?

"I don't know how appropriate this is to say," she started, eyes cast down at the surface of the wood table, "but ... thank you. For Ramsay."

She didn't think he was going to say anything. When she chanced a glance up, he was already staring at her. Over the last few days, she'd caught him doing that enough times that she was starting to expect to see his eyes on her every time she turned. It was both unnerving and reassuring all at once.

"My pleasure," Jon said darkly.

Sansa didn't doubt that it was.

"I heard it," she confessed. Jon was still looking at her, listening. "I heard him screaming. But apparently no one else did. Am I going mad?"

Like with her head pains, Jon didn't seem remotely concerned. Was he not worried for her well-being at all?

"The kennels are facing your window," he said, uninterested. "Everyone else was just too far away."

Sansa wasn't satisfied with that explanation, but she dropped it. How could Jon possibly have answers for what she was going through? Just because he was the one who killed Ramsay, that didn't mean he would have any idea of why she reacted to it the way she did. Maybe she really was going insane. Maybe her headaches were causing brain damage, severe enough to cause her to hallucinate screaming. Could they kill her, these headaches? The idea was so nerve-wracking that Sansa couldn't even think on it. She didn't want to have survived what she did just to die now that she was finally free.

Jon cast his eyes next to her, looking at the bottle of medicine on her table. He seemed a little impatient. Sansa tilted her head, observing. Was it so urgent to him that the milk of the poppy send her into a stupor? He was really so desperate to leave her? It stung. It was worse that she felt too embarrassed to even ask him why. But she knew why, didn't she? She hadn't been kind to him when they were children. Why should he care for her at all?

(She wished he would.)

A look came over Jon's face that made her wonder for a short, panicky moment whether he'd heard her. But no, she hadn't spoken out loud. Her thoughts were privately her own. Jon sighed, and the pressure in her head faded, and faded, until it was gone completely. It would be back, though, she knew. But at least now Sansa wasn't occupied with thoughts of it. 

The longer Sansa stared, the more aware she became of the subtle shift in Jon's features since the previous days. He seemed better. Could it be that having returned home was helping heal him from battle? The day he'd arrived, he seemed entirely devoid of emotions, even as he'd hugged and told her he was happy to see her (was it a lie? Was that why he had looked like he felt nothing?). There was something there now, though. She hoped she could see more of these little emotions.

His eyes slid to hers. She looked away.

"You look better," she said, glancing shortly at him.

His tiny little smile was more genuine than any of the ones she'd seen on him before. A small flicker of hope alighted within her. Was he truly improving?

"Did I look bad before?" he asked.

"No," she said quickly. "Just ... sad, a little."  _Empty_ , she'd meant to say, but couldn't. She hesitated, staring at him before asking, "How are you feeling?"

Another emotion flitted across his face, so light it was more of a shadow than a full emotion, but she saw the barest hint of surprise there. As though her asking after his well-being was unusual. Maybe it was. Guiltily, she realized she'd never done so when they were younger. (How could she make up for this? How could she make everything better?)

"As good as I can," he said.

Well, that was ... good? Bad? She wasn't quite sure what that meant.

She sighed quietly, looking away and out the window. Maybe neither of them would ever be allowed to feel happy again. It was all Sansa wanted. Happiness, and her family.

Jon's low voice cut smoothly through the silence, any emotion she'd heard before fazing out.

"I know that I'm different," he said, drawing her gaze to him. His eyes were steady on hers, somber. "And I know you're afraid of who I am now. But I'd like it if you weren't."

Sansa's lips parted. She didn't know what to say. Did he mean that?

Briefly, Jon turned his blank, dulling eyes back to the bottle of medicine.

Sansa hardened again. If he meant it, he wouldn't be in such a rush to leave. What was she to him? An inconvenience? Worse, a waste of time?

She looked down, her face falling.

"What happened at the Wall changed me," he went on. She didn't look back up. "I won't lie and say it didn't. But not completely. I've missed home as you have. I want our brother and sister back just as much as you do."

_He's speaking to me as though I'm not his sister, too._

Maybe she just had to give it time. He hadn't been harsh to her so far, other than ... not caring for her state of mind and wanting to be through with her so soon ... but if she judged his harshness by what he did to Ramsay, then what he was doing to her was sweet in comparison. She could give it time. She would try to make him forgive her. She would try to make herself stop being afraid.

"Can you trust me, Sansa?"

She nodded, still not meeting his eyes, and sighed deeply through her nose. It made her lightheaded, and she tried to blink the sensation away, but it wouldn't lift. It was the milk of the poppy, then. It was starting to kick in.

Jon would be pleased. He could be on his way now.

"I need to lie down," she muttered, moving away from the table to her bed, stumbling a little.

"What's wrong?" he asked, as though he wanted her to think he was concerned, as though she didn't already know he'd dismiss her pains even if something really was the matter, the same as he'd done with her headaches.

"Nothing's wrong," she said, collapsing on her bed and slumping onto her side, facing him where he remained at her door. "I think I took too much milk of the poppy."

Jon was watching her, eerily still.

She was watching him, waiting for him to dismiss himself.

Instead, he slowly crossed to the small, circular dining table and lifted the pitcher of water in one hand, pouring it into a goblet. Sansa watched him as he came to her side and set the water on her night table before turning and walking away.

Well ... that was considerate. The bare minimum. Maybe he cared a little.

But Sansa didn't want to be alone right now. She should at least ask him to call for Brienne.

She opened her mouth to do just that when Jon took hold of one of the dining chairs and came back to the bed, setting it right beside her and sitting down, looking at her.

For a moment, she was stunned into silence. Was he going to wait for her to fall asleep?

"I'm not tired yet," she said, as thought to warn him.

Jon blinked, staring. "All right."

She frowned.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He paused again before responding.

"Is there something else you'd rather I do?"

"I meant ... don't you have to be ... somewhere else?"

"I can be where I please."

Did that mean he'd  _like_ to stay with her? Sansa's stomach gave a funny little flip. Maybe he did care for her. But then why did he seem so impatient for her decoction to work?

The intense way he was staring at her pulled her focus completely to the present. Normally, it frightened her when he looked at her like this. She couldn't figure out what it meant. It reminded her of something, though ... something she'd seen before. The longer she held his gaze from this close, the stronger her heartbeat became, clutched in the grip of fear. She'd seen a monster in those eyes before, big and black and scaly. She was terrified that it might come back, that it might crawl right out of his eyes and consume her.

But the milk of the poppy was quickly muddling her brain so that, with every passing second, she was losing track of what it was she was thinking about. As her heart rate went back down, she kept her eyes on Jon's, mesmerized now by their colour.

"Thirsty?" he asked.

She considered it. She wasn't, but she still had the unpleasant aftertaste of the milk of the poppy in her mouth. So she nodded.

He handed her the water and she sat up just enough to take a sip before giving it back to him and relaxing again into her bedding. Instead of setting it back down, he kept it held between both hands, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Are you in any pain?"

His voice was quiet. Sansa shook her head.

"None."

There was an odd feeling in her skull then, like a fissure opening and warmth radiating within it. It was positively delightful.

"And your head?" he asked.

Sansa pressed her cheek into the pillow, eyelids fluttering.

"Feels wonderful," she murmured.

Jon sighed, long and slow. "Good."

The feeling slowly expanded, this invisible fissure widening more and more until her mind was unlocked and unrestrained. There was a soft pressure there, too, something she felt she could get drunk on. It felt so delectable. Her sigh came out more like a breathy hum. Gods, what was happening? Whatever it was, she didn't want it to stop. She'd taken milk of the poppy before, but she didn't recall having experienced  _this_.

A toe-curling, all encompassing wave of pleasure seemed to be flowing into her through this odd crack in her head, trickling down through her throat and into her body, filling her to the brim until she felt it in every inch of her. Her exhale was shaky when she spread her fingers on the bed, her nerve-endings hyper aware. She couldn't feel her heart, but if she could, she knew it would be racing. Her breaths were quickening and shallow, noisy even to her own ears. Sansa arched on the bed, her legs rubbing slowly together underneath the skirts of her dress, and she released a soft, drawn-out moan.

By the Gods, this was unreal.

Of its own accord, her head maneuvered itself so that Jon was in her line of vision. As soon as she focused on him, the intensity of the the pleasure doubled, stealing her breath. Her eyelids fluttered, falling softly closed, but she could still see Jon vividly behind them, as though her eyes were still open and focused right on him.

"Feel good?" he murmured.

Sansa could only shiver in response. She didn't feel good, she felt incredible. It was a mixture of bliss and arousal, an odd combination with Jon sitting right beside her.

There was a sudden and quiet murmur of a suggestion in her head, an intrusive one, a controlling one. She tried to resist it, squirming in discomfort, but under the influence of her medicine, she quickly gave up the fight. Her mind was completely open to suggestion, it seemed. She didn't even know what to make of that.

The urge was gently spurring her to touch Jon, to reach out and caress his cheek. She didn't think he would like that, but she couldn't fight the impulse. She was no longer in control.

He didn't jerk away as she thought he would. As she lifted her hand, he even leaned slightly closer, as though he knew what she intended to do and was welcoming it. When her fingertips brushed his face, she let out a soft moan, a ripple of a sigh washing through her body, relaxing it beyond anything she'd ever felt before.

Jon looked enraptured. She was quite certain that her face matched his own. She was dazed and addlebrained, her thoughts disjointed and all melding together in a brain that wasn't quite working, but her confusion consistently ebbed back into her mind. She didn't know what she was doing. She didn't know what  _he_ was doing.

 _What are you feeling?_ she wondered.

 _The same as you_ , something replied.

Sansa's first thought was that it was Jon who answered her. But then she erupted in giggles, light and content. No, that couldn't be right.

What wasn't right? What was she laughing at?

The intense feeling in her body slowly subsided, little by little, until it softened to a delicate warmth, though not quite leaving her. The pressure remained in her head, and she wondered vaguely when she'd felt it before, but couldn't quite put her finger on it. Jon was still watching her, letting her trail her finger down his jawline and through the coarse hairs of his beard. Her hand no longer acted of its own will. Now that she'd started touching him, she felt that she quite liked the feel of him under her hand. She didn't want to break the contact.

It was odd to her that _he_ didn't stop her, but if he was okay with it, then so was she. When she met his eyes, she saw that his pupils were so wide she could barely see the soft grey ring around them. It thrilled her and she didn't know why. She tugged lightly at his beard and he grunted quietly, his head moving ever so slightly with her pull.

A tiny, erratic, panicky part of her warned her not to do that, not to anger him, that it wasn't safe, that she didn't know what he would do.  _Don't you remember?_ it was screaming at her, somewhere far off in the distance, so quiet she could barely hear it.  _Don't you remember what he's capable of?_  But she drowned it out, not understanding. She wasn't angering Jon. She wasn't even sure angering him was possible for her to do.

He smiled softly at her, and she smiled back, trailing her fingers down over his jaw and to his neck. She played with the tight ringlets of hair just below his ear. He was wearing it half up, as he did most of the time these days, but she wished she could feel it between her fingers.

As though answering her silent musings, Jon reached back with one hand and pulled the string from its knot, releasing his hair and setting the twine on her nightstand. She nearly thanked him before she realized she hadn't asked him to do it. It would be odd to thank him for something he did for himself, wouldn't it?

Or would it? Sansa didn't know. Was she behaving strangely? She couldn't quite remember what normal was anymore.

She threaded her fingers through his soft curls, her hand gliding over his scalp. It felt so nice slipping between her fingers. He had locks to rival those of some maidens. He let out a quiet hum of pleasure, and she smiled. Did it feel as good to him as it did to her?

"I wish I had your hair," she said, thumb grazing the skin of his cheek as her hand stroked downward.

"I prefer yours," he said, voice low.

"Well, you're welcome to it," she murmured.

Jon gave her a tender smile, and warmth kindled in her chest. She felt like she hadn't seen him smile like that in years. Gods, he was easy on the eyes. When had he grown so? He certainly looked a man now. Were any lords calling on him to marry their daughters? They should be.  _Make haste, all ye nobles_ , Sansa thought.  _Before someone else snatches him away._

Jon gave a soft, quiet laugh.

"You would have me married off?" he asked warmly.

Oh, had she said that out loud? Must have. How odd, she'd assumed she was thinking quietly to herself.

"We must make alliances," she said, not really knowing why that was the case. "I'll be married, too."

"You don't have to marry anyone," he said.

Sansa's hand stilled, her smile faltering. His words resurrected the quiet fear she'd somehow managed to strangle away without even realizing it, the one that said Jon had no reason to look after for her wellness.

"Don't you want me to be taken care of?" she asked, suddenly meek.

_Don't you care about me?_

"I'll take care of you," he said.

The tension left her. She was looking at him, trying to decipher whether he meant it.

"I promise," he said.

Sansa couldn't help but believe him. He looked so sincere.

"I believe you," she breathed, and Jon seemed to relax, too.

She drew her hand down to his beard again, enjoying the the way it felt, how coarse it was. It was as far from Ramsay's bare face as possible.

Sansa's eyes had been gently hooded, but they jolted open wide when her body reacted with its own fear to the thought of Ramsay. What was he going to do to her? Where was she? His prisoner? She recognized this room. This was Ramsay's ... this was ... Winterfell. She was Ramsay's wife. Oh, Gods, no, she didn't want to go through that again, please,  _please!_

 _No,_ something breathed in her mind, loud enough to drown out her fears.  _He's gone_ , it promised.  _He'll never touch you again._

She relaxed again. Of course, how could she forget? Ramsay was gone. He was dead. No, he wasn't just dead, he'd been murdered. Jon killed him. Her brain was conjuring the image of a fire poker, for some odd reason. Sansa focused on Jon again, on the softness of his hair, the smooth edges of his handsome face.

 _This is a dangerous man,_ she thought.  _A very dangerous man._

A dangerous man who would keep her safe. She was sure of it. His eyes hadn't left her, his gaze full of reverence.  _My family_ , she thought, contented. She lightly scratched at his beard, imagining how it would feel on the delicate skin of her throat.

There was a sudden, sharp image shifting into place in her mind that drove away everything she was seeing in real life. She could still feel it, could feel the bed beneath her back, Jon's beard under her fingertips, but she felt something else, too. She saw something else. She was on Jon's bed now in his old chambers. He was above her, pressing a warm, soft kiss to her neck, his beard scratching against her soft skin. Sansa gasped, and then it vanished. She was back where she'd been all along. But it had been so vivid. She blinked rapidly, her body warm and tingly all over.

"I feel ... odd."

"Do you?" he asked lightly.

"I'm not ... quite sure," she said, finally dropping her hand to the bed and looking around. She was definitely not in Jon's room. She hadn't been transported anywhere.

"You've taken medicine," he said offhandedly, sounding amused. "It will make you feel a bit strange."

But Sansa shook her head against the pillow, seeking his eyes again--

And then abruptly jolted away. In Jon's place now appeared a horrible, colossal monster like something from a nightmare, baring its rows of razor sharp teeth, growling at her. Instead of skin, it had black scales. Its eyes were red, its pupils slits, and it had nostrils like a snake's. It loomed over her, coming closer. Sansa's heart was beating frantically in her chest, so hard it was near painful. There were tiny red horns along the creature's arms and a long tail at its back that speared at the end to a sharp point. The monster lifted a hand to her, its jagged nails on its scaly hand looking more like a reptilian claw, and she cried out, recoiling to the edge of the bed. She knew it wanted her. This monster, this demon, it wanted to hurt her; it wanted her life.

Sobbing, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, sharply turning her her face from it and burying it in her pillow.

"Sansa?"

At the sound of Jon's voice, Sansa's eyes flew open. She turned again, seeing that the monster had gone and Jon was there again, still sitting in the chair, elbows resting on his knees and hands curled around her water goblet. He looked alarmed, setting her water on the night table. The warm, soothing feeling in her head swelled, abruptly flooding her with pleasure so strong that she moaned, relief washing away everything else. Had she just been afraid? What did she have to be afraid of?

She wanted to be close to Jon, as close as she could possibly be, to touch his face again. She rolled toward him on her bed, delighting in the sensation of her sensitive skin pressing against her bedding. She would have tumbled right off had Jon not stopped her, pressing his warm hands to her back and carefully hauling her back to safety, standing as he did.

"Don't go," she begged, flipping around to face him, grabbing onto his arm before he could leave her.

He shook his head. "I'm not."

He looked different from before. His features were guarded now.

Instead of returning to his chair, he sat on the edge of her bed, letting her hold onto his arm. She felt like she'd lost the last several minutes in a sudden bout of amnesia. Maybe that was the milk of the poppy. She'd really probably taken too much. She could only remember she was afraid. She was trying very hard to remember why, but her brain was cloudy. What had frightened her? Another wave of warmth and pleasure curled along her skin, comforting like a gentle caress and incredibly distracting. Sansa sighed, rolling the lower half of her body toward Jon so the fronts of her legs were pressed against him. He made her feel so safe. This  _feeling_ made her feel so safe, Gods.

"I didn't mean to do that," he said quietly. "Forgive me."

"You're forgiven," she said, though she didn't know for what he should be forgiven. She forgave him all the same.

"Go to sleep, Sansa," he whispered, leaning over her.

The bed shifted, and in the next moment, she felt his mouth pressed into her hairline in a soft kiss, his beard grazing her forehead. It reminded her of when he'd kissed her neck.

But ... when had he ever done that?

She found herself nodding off without really meaning to. She'd been so tired all day, so very tired. She couldn't sleep well the last two nights. Why couldn't she? She couldn't ... quite remember. Another wave of tranquilizing contentment made her forget everything and everyone, made her forget her own name.

Until Jon was murmuring it against her hair, murmuring 'Sansa', murmuring 'you're safe'. When she drifted off, the ghost of Jon's lips followed her into her dreams.

It wasn't until sometime around midday that same day that Sansa awoke, well-rested and rejuvenated. She felt great but for the absolutely _pounding_ headache in the back of her head. It was different from her normal headaches, but it was in exactly the same spot. Perhaps they were getting worse?

Sansa would have fretted over that thought some more had she not become aware of the stroke of something coarse and familiar beneath her hand. She looked down at her side and startled at the hulking white wolf that lay in her bed. She relaxed, gasping lightly as she curled toward the beast.

"Ghost!" she breathed, hugging him close.

He lifted his head just enough to reposition it so he could set his red eyes on her, his muzzle resting on her furs. She smiled at him, leaning back to look at him, too. He reminded her of Lady. He reminded her of home.

He reminded her of a lot of things.

"When did you arrive, boy?" she asked, petting his large head.

It had to have been within the last few hours. Jon must have made him her sentinel while she slept, though she couldn't imagine who or what he'd be guarding her from.

Which reminded her of something. Though she wasn't quite sure of  _what_. 

She'd had the strangest dream, but it was so wonderful. If it was the milk of the poppy that had given her such an extraordinary experience, perhaps she should drink it more often.

In her dreams, she'd had a conversation with Jon, the details of which she couldn't recall, but she did remember some things. She remembered how pleasant she felt speaking with him. She remembered something soft in her hand, something scratchy on her forehead. She remembered Jon's smile. Even her dreams were conjuring up the Jon she preferred. For a moment, her heart ached at the memory of it. She longed to have that back, to feel that closeness. But she wasn't under the influence of her medicine anymore, so she remembered with great clarity the type of person Jon had become. It had been so sweet, though, that feeling. She wished she could remember what they'd spoken about in her dreamscape. She wished she could relive what had made her so delighted.

But she couldn't even fathom trying to recall that experience because by the Gods, did her head hurt.

"Shall we go and find the maester?" she asked Ghost, who rose and leapt silently off the bed before padding to the door. He looked back at her, waiting.

Sansa pulled herself from her bed and touched her feet to the cold stone floor. Her body excited at the idea of seeing Jon, her heart quickening, though her mind couldn't conjure up a reason as to why. She took her goblet of water from her night table and took a long drink, unable to remember putting it there. That was when she noticed a string of very pale brown twine sitting on the table. She frowned, picking it up and setting down the goblet. Wasn't this what Jon used to tie his hair?

She rubbed it between her fingers as she stood and walked the door. The pain of her throbbing headache intensified when she tried to remember mere hours ago, but she felt that there was something she was missing. When she opened the door, Ghost trotted out ahead of her, and she followed, bemused. There were odd flashes in her mind of things, of sensations and imagery that must have belonged to her dream, but now she was wondering if her dream really was a dream.

Because she could conjure an image of Jon beside her bed with his hair loose from its typical knot. She could imagine it very easily. And having his hair string left in her room amidst that image, well, that couldn't be a coincidence, could it?

When Sansa reached the fork in the corridor, the right hall leading to Maester Wolkan and the other leading to Jon, Sansa turned left, following Ghost to Jon's chambers. If it hadn't been a dream, he'd be able to tell her what happened, what they talked about that made her feel so warm and heavenly.

The only thing coming to mind was the idea that Jon convinced Sansa in her delirious state that she didn't have to marry Lord Baelish. That certainly had the capacity to make her blissed out. And if Jon was back now, then why should she have to marry Littlefinger?

As Sansa walked to Jon's rooms, briefly greeting the servants and soldiers and handmaidens that travelled the halls, she gave in to the giddy happiness at the possibility of being finally and truly free, once-and-for-all.

 _And home_ , she thought, eager.  _Free, and home, and safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love stories with a dark male lead, but something that always rubs me the wrong way is a male lead who intentionally hurts or harms the female lead. I know some people are into that, but it's not my thing. Not that Jon in this story won't do anything harmful to Sansa, but if he believes he's causing her pain or discomfort, he'll stop. And I also always hoped that if Jon came back darker in the books, he wouldn't lose his family-oriented quality (I mean he prob will, but that's why I'm writing this fanfic, gotdamn).
> 
> I tried not to write him too soft in this, but it was hard writing dark-soft, man, lemme tell you. I'm on the fence about whether I like it because I want my dude dark af, but this also seemed necessary. But my dark asshole makes a comeback next chapter, so I'm excited for that. Also originally, this chapter featured Littlefinger, too, but I was just like ... it's nearly fuckin 7000 words already, I can't add more.


	3. Asphyxia, Flame, Corpse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really tired in the midst of editing this, so it might be a bit messy.
> 
> *Please refer to the warning label of this fic.*

_~ We found each other. I helped you out of a broken place. You gave me comfort, but falling for you was my mistake. ~_

* * *

The ominous timbre of Jon's voice when he called for Sansa to enter his chambers almost made her retreat. She'd been high-strung on the walk over, confusingly so, but not out of fear ... it had been more of an eagerness, the mere thought of him rousing her brain and body with faint echoes of the serenity she'd felt mere hours ago. Now, though, there was an unmistakable tightness to his tone that snuffed out her excitement.

She cleared her throat and grasped the handle, slowly opening the door to his old chambers. He'd chosen them again, despite their meager size. It shamed Sansa a little that she had the Lord's chambers and Jon was again reduced to bastard status merely by inhabiting his old rooms. But when she'd suggested to him in the Great Hall that, as the eldest, he should have the Lord's chambers instead, he'd refused. Whoever held the Lord's chambers also held the North, and Jon made it clear he wouldn't be taking over.

"I don't desire Winterfell," he'd said, inscrutable as always. "It's yours."

"Well, what do you desire, then?" she'd asked, mostly just giving him cheek, but also searching for what she could do to kindle a stronger bond between them.

He'd given her an odd look, stared a bit too long to be comfortable, and then told her, "Plenty."

Nothing else had been said, and he'd left Sansa alone and fidgety at the head table.

Now, when she stepped into his chambers, Jon was facing the smoldering red coals in his fireplace, arms crossed and hands clenched to fists. His hair was unbound, as she'd known it would be, and at the sound of her entrance, he looked at her over his shoulder. His empty face froze for a moment, and then he turned back to the fireplace.

"Sansa," he said, flexing his hands opened. "Are you feeling better?"

There was a hard undertone to his words that set her on edge.

"Not really," she said. "My head feels worse."

"Sorry to hear that," he said, though he didn't sound it. "Is there something you need?"

Her lips parted gently, tremulous fingers toying with the length of twine. Ghost brushed past her legs, and she startled with a quiet gasp before she realized what it was. Jon glanced back again as Ghost slunk into the room and found a spot near the fire to curl into a watchful ball and rest.

Jon was still looking at her, waiting for an answer.

"I just ..." she paused, and then held up the twine, "came to return this."

Jon's eyes dropped to her hand before he returned his attention to the charring wood.

"Thank you," he said, clearly impatient. "You can set it on my desk."

But she didn't. "Is everything all right?"

He tensed.

"I'm entertaining a guest shortly," he said, clipped. "I'd like it if you left."

A flowery breeze from the opened window stirred through the room, kissing Sansa's skin, and small flames abruptly crackled to life in the glowing coals. Jon uncrossed his arms then, moving away from the fire and coming to Sansa.

Not knowing what he intended to do, she remained still, her lips gently parting. When he was close, he took her arm gently and turned her to make her leave through the still opened door.

She squirmed out of his grasp, though, refusing to budge, even with how sharply his gaze bit into hers.

"What kind of guest?" she asked.

"It doesn't concern you," he said quietly, the harsh undertone to his voice having vanished.

It was impossible to read his closed-off expression, and Sansa could think of no reason she should be kept out of the loop. Unless ... it was an intimate meeting?

Had he grown lustful as a result of his resurrection? Had he purchased a _whore?_   Jon's vows to the Night's Watch had prevented him from ever laying with a woman, not that there were any on the Wall to tempt him, but Sansa knew intimacies of that kind were something men needed more than a woman did. Jon was three years older than her, but he was more a maid than she. And at his age, he was in his prime.

"A brothel call?" she asked, shy before she'd even asked it.

Jon's face was unreadable.

"You know I don't do that," he said lowly.

They were close together, certainly in each other's personal space, but Sansa took Jon's lead and didn't back away. Belatedly, she realized he was waiting for her to say something, to explain herself.

"I didn't know if ..." she stopped, struggling to find a way to word it that couldn't be taken offensively. "I thought that might be something else that's changed about you."

He shook his head once, eyes dropping. "It isn't."

When they were younger, Jon had been so vocally adamant about never fathering a bastard that even  _Sansa_ knew all about it. She was sure the whole of Winterfell was aware.

"There are ways to negate unwanted pregnancies, you know," she said, sounding as casual as if she'd been speaking of the weather. His grey eyes flicked back to hers when she added, "If you're lonely."

She couldn't imagine he wasn't. For a moment, Jon said nothing, watching her face. She swallowed. When he did speak, his voice was lower, face guarded.

"Do you think you would like me better if I had a whore to fuck?"

Her face flamed. She'd never heard him say anything so outwardly vulgar.

"I hadn't ... of course not."

"Then perhaps you were offering yourself?" he asked.

Sansa froze, searching his dull, grey eyes. There was no seriousness there. There was no playfulness either. She didn't know what he was trying to do. Frighten her?

"You know that's not what I - you shouldn't say those things," she said, hardly able to hold his gaze any longer. "It's not proper."

"My mistake," he said, voice hard again.

He closed in on her, coming so near that she started to stumble back, but he took her cool wrist in his hand and gently pulled her closer. She would have met his body had he not moved around her to the door, reaching for the handle and closing it with a dull  _thud._

Sansa swallowed, moving out of the way to give Jon room as he turned back to her. He held out his hand, much to Sansa's confusion. Did he mean for her to hold it?

"Thank you for returning it to me," he said, and she realized his intention.

"Oh," she said softly, starting to lift the twine, but then hesitated. "I can tie it for you."

He looked all at once unhinged at her words, more than a little out of control. The sight stole Sansa's breath, but she was nervous to let him know. It was incredible how swiftly his moods could change. One second, he was kind to her, and the next, he looked like she'd slapped him when she'd only offered to help. But he didn't deny her offer; didn't do anything at all. Ignoring the warning bells of her pattering heart, Sansa swallowed and moved around to his back.

She took one end of the rough twine between her lips, and with her hands, began dragging the top half of his hair into a bun.

"I have more experience with these things," she said quietly. "As a woman."

She hear him expel the tiniest of breaths; the barest laugh.

"I suppose that's true." 

The action of her hands in his curls was familiar, as though she'd done it before. It was evoking a feeling that was ... quite lovely; a shadow of the drugged peace from before. _'Then perhaps you were offering yourself?'_ A shiver traced down her spine, an image flashing unbidden through her mind of Sansa on her back on Jon's bed, his mouth at her neck, his beard on her skin. It was gone as quick as it came, seeming like a memory, though she knew it wasn't. Fumbling, she held his bun in one hand while hastily tying the twine around it and then stepped back.

Jon slowly turned to face her, eyes appraising what must have been a peculiar expression on her face. To distract herself from her flustering thoughts, she focused on his hair, which she thought was a safe place. It looked ... less touchable; not like when it was down. Sansa held back a huff. She didn't know why her brain was eliciting images of being in a compromising position with Jon, but she chalked it up to her headaches. Or milk of the poppy still being in her system. She didn't know. She'd rather not think on it at all.

"Is something bothering you?" Jon asked.

Sansa blinked. "No."

Jon's stare was so intent that she grew nervous and swallowed.

"I was ... I don't quite remember what happened while I was ... a few hours ago."

_Speak fluidly, girl! Don't make a fool of yourself!_

She cleared her throat, meaning to elaborate, but Jon spoke first. He sounded as collected as always.

"I'd be surprised if you did," he said. Having his unwavering eyes on her at such a small distance caused her body to react on its own, as though it held some kind of memory she wasn't privy to. "Milk of the poppy is known for altering memories."

She nodded. "Right, yes. Of course. So the thing is that ... I had hoped you could tell me what happened."

It took him a moment to answer.

"Not a lot," he said slowly. "You said some nonsensical things and did some nonsensical things and then you fell asleep."

"Oh," she said, wondering if there was even a point in pressing this.

If he didn't bring up Lord Baelish on his own, then it was probably safe to say they didn't talk about him. But now she was curious about these nonsensical things that she said and did, and about what made her so pleased if it wasn't discussing how she might break her engagement with Littlefinger. She also felt a little embarrassed about him calling her 'nonsensical'. She had plenty of sense.

"It's just that I remember feeling very ... pleasant," she said, though that was an understatement. She didn't know how to describe it to him otherwise. "I've never felt that way because of milk of the poppy, so I'd assumed it was something we spoke of."

He was still staring at her. His throat bobbed.

"You did seem happy when we spoke," he said, quite obviously holding something back.

Sansa was growing more and more nervous by the fact that he seemed to be growing more and more secretive.

"Will you tell me why?" she asked.

"I don't want you to be embarrassed," he said.

Her brows pressed together.

"Do I have reason to be?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off.

"No, no," she said quickly. "Don't answer that. Just ... tell me what I was so happy about. Please."

"Well," he started, taking a bit longer than seemed necessary to finish, "you touched my face, you told me you wished you had my hair, and that noble lords should hurry to match me with their daughters because you thought me handsome. Then you told me not to go when I stood to leave."

With pinched features, Sansa closed her eyes, the whole of her face flaming. Gods, she was never drinking milk of the poppy around Jon again. As shameful as it was, she could admit to herself all these things were her own thoughts and desires, aside from touching his face - she had no explanation for doing that other than that she was influenced by a drug - but it was one thing to think these things - to think his hair was pretty, that he was handsome - and another thing entirely for Jon to know about it. What he must have thought!

She blinked her eyes open to find his were already on hers. They were gentle. Not dull, not empty, but full and grey and gentle. For the briefest moment, she was reminded of the old Jon, of the one she'd known before he'd gone off to the Wall and she to King's Landing. He'd had nice hair then, too, but she'd never requested to  _touch_ it. Damned milk of the poppy. That must have been why it seemed familiar to tie his hair up.

But then her thoughts were again bombarded with the image on Jon above her on his bed, kissing her neck; something that had also felt 'familiar'. There was no way that actually happened, though. They'd been in her own chambers and Jon would never ... Jon would never.

"Is that all?" she found herself asking anyway, wary.

_'Then perhaps you were offering yourself?'_

"That's all," he said.

Sansa sighed, relieved.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be," he said. "I enjoyed it."

There was no teasing in his face, and for a moment, Sansa couldn't speak.

_'Then perhaps you were offering yourself?'_

She took a quiet breath.

"You're sure I hadn't done anything else? Because if I had, it wasn't me. If I--" Gods, she couldn't even believe she had to say this. "If I did something ... inappropriate, that was the milk of the poppy, not me."

Jon nodded once. "I understand."

She knew there was still something he wasn't telling her. She must have made a greater fool out of herself. Maybe that was why he was so impatient to make her leave his rooms earlier. Maybe she'd really done something horrible to him like asked him into her bed. Why else would he be talking about her 'offering' herself to him? She'd never have done it with a clear head, but people had been known to commit worse atrocities on higher doses of milk of the poppy, and her tolerance was very low. She would have to try to pick through the foggy haze of her memory, then, if Jon wasn't going to tell her.

He was still looking at her, impassive. 'I enjoyed it,' he'd said. Sansa couldn't imagine him enjoying much of anything, not with that sullen face. Certainly not anything to do with her. He was lying, wasn't he? There was no way he would have enjoyed her drugged, obnoxious insanity. He was just trying to make her feel better.

"Are you glad that we're together here at Winterfell?" she asked, feeling too vulnerable to look at him properly.

Jon tilted his head. "Of course I am."

Sansa nodded, looking down, and swallowed.

"I just wanted to say that ... I know I'm not Robb, or Arya, and we were never very close - not like you were with the others - but ... I'd like it if we changed that."

She heard him sigh a little and then he came toward her, drawing her eyes up to his. When he was in front of her, he gave her one of those smiles that seemed out of place in his features. He touched the side of her head and leaned in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. He pulled back, and the smile looked a little more genuine.

"I'd like that, too," he said.

When there was a knock at the door, Jon answered without taking his eyes off her.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Sansa was going to turn to see who it was, but Jon gently stroked the back of her head with his fingertips, distracting her.

"Are you staying?" he murmured.

Her lips parted, and she nodded.

Jon raised his eyes above her and dropped his hand from her hair.

"Hello, Lord Baelish," he said. "Close the door."

Sansa tensed, turning at the same time the door closed. Littlefinger was already looking at her.

"Lady Sansa," he said. "What a pleasant surprise."

She was frowning. "What are you doing here?"

"I haven't had the chance to speak with Lord Snow yet," he said, stepping slowly into the room. "I'd hoped we might have a private discussion."

"What for?" Sansa asked quickly. She was sure she knew, but she hadn't told Jon about her betrothal, and for some reason, the thought of him finding out from Littlefinger was horrible.

"I believe we have much to talk about," said Petyr, evading giving her a proper answer. "Why don't you leave us for now?"

Jon was now sat on the edge of his desk, looking at Lord Baelish in such a way that had a shiver erupting goosebumps on Sansa's skin.

"She can stay," said Jon. "There's no need for lengthy conversation. Let's talk about what you really came here for."

Petyr gave him a tight smile.

"I don't know what you mean, my lord."

Jon slightly lifted his chin.

"You want to marry my sister."

Sansa gasped, snapping her neck around.

"Jon," she said sharply, but he didn't look at her.

"We are already betrothed, my lord."

Sansa felt the blood drain from her face. The skin beneath Jon's eyes twitched when he narrowed them.

"I expect Sansa's had little say in the matter," he said, and Sansa released a shaky breath. Jon's face was opened by a quiet sort of wrath, threatening eyes focused right at Petyr. "She's safe at Winterfell and will be provided for here. She doesn't wish to marry, so she won't."

"Forgive me, my lord," said Petyr, incredibly calm under the weight of Jon's hostility, "but I believe it's in Lady Sansa's right to choose that for herself."

Jon looked to her. "Do you want to marry him?"

Sansa froze. She couldn't believe he'd asked her so bluntly.

"You're safe to say what you want," he said.

She certainly didn't feel like it. How could she deny Littlefinger right then without any repercussions? She'd already told him she'd marry him.

When she hesitated too long, Jon spoke instead.

"Perhaps we should speak alone and call Lord Baelish back when we're done."

"That's not necessary," she said, regaining her composure.

"If you're feeling obligated to tell him what he wants to hear, then I'd say it is--"

Sansa met Petyr's eyes.

"I don't wish to marry you," she said, swallowing when he stared.

He closed his mouth.

"If we might speak alone, my lady--"

"I won't allow you to further poison my sister's mind," Jon said coldly. "You're mistaken if you believe I'll let you take advantage of her again."

Littlefinger blinked twice rapidly, lips making a noise when he parted them to speak.

"I've never taken advantage of Lady Sansa."

Jon rose from the desk. "So it was her own decision to end up the bride of Ramsay Bolton?"

Sansa had the keen sense that he already knew the answer. Littlefinger's jaw tightened for an instant before he relaxed again.

"I made the mistake of entrusting Lady Sansa to the Boltons not knowing the kind of man Ramsay was."

"An interesting claim," Jon said numbly.

"An honest one, I assure you--"

"Roose Bolton aided in the ambush against our brother and Sansa's mother," said Jon, his voice low and cold. "You knew that. And then you married Sansa to his son."

Littlefinger held Jon's eyes for a moment longer and then turned to Sansa.

"I promise you, my lady, I hadn't known he would behave so brutishly toward you as his wife."

He'd told her that before, but she'd never fully believed him. She still didn't, but she nodded anyway, averting her eyes.

Jon was staring at Petyr, saying nothing, wearing that perpetually still mask. Petyr suddenly winced, his hand jerking to the back of his head, his eyes squeezed shut. Sansa looked over.

"Forgive me," he said, his voice strained. "I think I should retire for the night."

Sansa's face fell in confusion. She took one hesitant step toward him.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing ... nothing," he said, and then winced again, this time with a quiet, pained grunt. "I have a sudden headache. Please excuse me."

Ghost rose and silently crossed the room to block the door, teeth bared in a low growl. His fur was on end, red eyes glued to Lord Baelish, who stopped and turned back to Jon, face now as hostile as her brother's.

"We're not done yet," said Jon, and then lured Sansa's attention back to him with the sound of her name. "What would you have us do with Lord Baelish? Be honest."

Littlefinger looked at her, too, carefully composed face now looking less so. She found Jon's eyes again, and he nodded once in encouragement, blinking slowly.

"I would ... I would hope we can remain allies even if we are unmarried," she said, finding it uncomfortable to maintain eye contact with Littlefinger, but forcing herself to anyway. "I think it's best you and the Knights of the Vale return home when you can. Jon and I would like to settle in properly, I think. And focus our attentions on searching for Arya and Bran."

She looked at Jon to see if he agreed, and he gave her an almost smile. It was difficult to discern between his various bland expressions, but she was certain now that he was satisfied with her. It filled her with a sense of pride she hadn't felt in a long time. It was nice, being on someone's side when they were also on hers.

"Well, then, it looks like it's settled," said Jon, focus back on Lord Baelish.

Petyr's face was tense, and Sansa wasn't sure if it was from his headache or from dealing with Jon. He let out a quite breath through his nose and stood taller, dropping his hand from his head.

"I heard a funny little rumour that you died beyond the Wall," he said slowly.

Sansa froze, and Jon's face hardened, his jaw clenching. He said nothing for a moment, but when he did, there was an unmistakable threat in his tone.

"A rumour, as you said."

Petyr reached into his black robes and pulled out a scroll. It was the one Sansa had received from the Wall, claiming Jon was killed in the battle with the White Walkers. Her lips parted. He'd stolen that from her room? She looked at Petyr's face, but he wasn't looking at her.

"Concocted by the Night's Watch as a bit of fun, I presume," said Littlefinger, lightly turning the scroll in his fingers. "I'd be interested to hear what the other Houses have to say about this."

No one said anything for a moment, the fire crackling quietly in the background along with the soft sound of wind gliding through the treetops outside. But then Sansa heard a long, drawn out sigh from Jon behind her.

"I'd decided to leave you unharmed," he said quietly, "for Sansa's sake. But I think I've changed my mind."

Littlefinger bristled.

"A threat against me is a threat against the Vale," he said, voice hard. "I know you don't mean to enter into a conflict with my men."

"Your men?" Jon echoed, one eyebrow raised. "Lysa Arryn is dead. Once you are, too, the Vale will go to her son. I assure you, there will be no conflict between our House and his."

Petyr swallowed, staring, and then he flinched sharply. He lifted his hand to the back of his head, giving it a short, harsh rub, and turned again for the door. But Ghost was still guarding it, and he snapped his jaws at Petyr, who froze a moment before facing them once more.

"I demand you let me leave," he said, face and voice both full of malice. "Order your dog aside."

The corners of Jon's eyes tightened. "You're not in charge here."

Lord Baelish opened his mouth to say something, but then froze. He blinked a few times, chin dropping down and brow furrowing. He opened his mouth wider, throat flexing, and he reached a hand to his neck. His chest began convulsing.

"Lord Baelish?" Sansa asked, stepping toward him.

Jon moved gracefully in front of her, his back to her, and reached behind himself to gently nudge her back with his hand on her stomach. A few feet in front of Jon, Littlefinger was plainly struggling. He'd dropped the scroll and both hands were now clawing at his throat, his eyes bulging from their sockets, shoulders hunched over.

"I - can't - breathe," Petyr choked out.

His legs gave out and he crashed to the floor.

Alarmed, Sansa started to step forward again to help him. Before she could pass Jon, however, he held his arm in front of her, stopping her.

"Jon, something's happening to him," she said, sharp.

Jon gently pushed her back, this time stepping with her.

"Let it," he said softly.

The hand blocking her moved away, sweeping toward Lord Baelish as it did, and all at once, flames erupted along the length of his body. Sansa gasped, eyes wide, and she staggered back. Petyr let out a feeble shriek, but didn't seem to have much air left. He tried again anyway, his weak cries echoing through the room, but then Jon flourished his hand another time and the cries stopped. Even through the flames, Sansa could see that Petyr's face was contorted in agony, that his mouth was open in a silent scream. Petyr rose to his feet and scrambled across the room to Jon's full water basin. The moment he lurched down to submerge himself, Jon twisted two of his fingers in Littlefinger's direction, and his entire body froze, inches away from the water.

Sansa was breathing quickly, her heart pounding against her bones. Jon passed her and picked the scroll off the floor before walking slowly to Littlefinger and crouching down beside him.

"It didn't have to come to this," he said quietly, using the flames around Petyr's body to ignite the parchment.

It burned all the way down to Jon's fingertips, and he didn't flinch away from the heat. It died against his skin, and Jon stood, circling him.

Sansa stumbled back further, her breaths growing sharper and sharper until each one was a gasp. The fire was so bright that it hurt her eyes. Jon hadn't seemed to notice her at all, his gaze fixated on Petyr, but when she bumped into the door and it jiggled in its frame, Jon snapped his head around to see her. Shaking her head, she clapped both hands over her mouth, staring at Lord Baelish burning to death.

"Why are you scared?" Jon murmured.

Sansa was too distracted by the flames to answer. Jon waved his hand toward Littlefinger again and at once, the flames were snuffed out. Littlefinger's burned, blistering body tilted forward, the upper half falling beneath the water with a _hiss_ , causing thick steam to rise while the lower half collapsed on the ground, smoke curling toward the open window. A sudden, faint sensation pressed into the back of Sansa's skull that she wouldn't have noticed if she wasn't already acutely aware of her headache. In her periphery, she saw Jon coming toward her, but she couldn't take her eyes off Littlefinger's unmoving body. She was terrified, and she couldn't look away.

Her line of vision was immediately swallowed by Jon, who blocked Petyr from view.

"Don't look if it scares you," he said, and she met his steely eyes with her frightened ones.

Her hands slowly fell from her mouth, the fear that was spiked by witnessing Jon commit such brutality distorted by the fact that he was her brother and she loved him.

"I know you have questions," he said steadily, stopping a few feet in front of her. "Ask me."

She straightened, pressing her hands to her stomach as she tried to even out her breathing. If the door wasn't at her back supporting her weight, she would have fallen.

"I don't know what's happening," she whispered.

"Which part?" he asked, far more patient and calm than she could imagine anyone being in this situation.

"What do you mean 'which part'? You set him on fire with nothing."

"With my hand," he corrected. "I've been practicing."

"Jon, what are you ..." she stopped when she noticed how crazed he looked.

He somehow seemed closer to her than he was, larger than he was, and Sansa's eyes flicked down to his hands, watching for movement. She was afraid he was going to set her on fire, too.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, starting to walk toward her again.

Sansa pressed back as hard into the door as she could, a tremble rippling down her body as her gaze levelled on Jon's again. He didn't halt in his approach, this time stopping right in front of her.

"Ask me what you want, Sansa," he said. "I'll tell you the truth."

It took a moment for her to find her voice again.

"Why did you kill him?" she whispered.

She hoped he wouldn't say something about Petyr using the letter as a threat. Sansa knew that wasn't really the reason for this murder, because if the letter was the problem, Jon could have just taken it from him. There was no way for him to have left that room had Jon not allowed it. But Jon didn't mention that at all.

"He didn't deserve to live," he said, as though it was simple.

"By who's standard?" she asked meekly, though she'd tried to be sharp. "Your own?"

"Aye, Sansa. My own."

She shook her head, legs weak.

"You can't just  _murder_ everyone you dislike."

Jon's eyes raked over her face, and she could have sworn she saw confusion there.

"You have objections about his death?"

She had objections about  _him_. She was confused, she was frightened, and she couldn't be sure that she wasn't about to follow Petyr to his grave.

Jon looked dimly exasperated, and took a slow breath, seeming to calm himself. Then, startling Sansa, he reached for one of her frigid hands. She recoiled, but that didn't stop him. His hands were both warm, incredibly so, and he rubbed them slowly over one of hers, warming her up. She was shaking, but she was too afraid to use force against him to get him to stop. And despite the fear, she couldn't pretend the warmth didn't feel nice against her trembling fingers.

"When I died," he said quietly, eyes focused on their hands, "I remember being someplace empty. It felt like nothing. I had no body anymore, but I could still feel it when I burned. The flames went inside me, and when I woke in the midst of battle, they were still there."

"I don't understand any of this," she said, starting to cry.

"Neither do I," he muttered, the skin of his palms rough against her hands. "Thoros was the red priest who brought me back. He thought the Red God gave me this gift to defeat the White Walkers. We would have died without it, all of us, everyone in the world. But I was invincible in battle. With each White Walker I killed with my flames, every wight they created died with them. It's not as easy to conjure anymore, but it's there."

Sansa could barely focus on this at all. She  _had_ been wanting to ask him about the battle, but it never seemed appropriate to bring it up over the last few days. And now was not the time. At the moment, she was more concerned with recent events.

"You did other things to Littlefinger," she said, voice wavering. "You suffocated him ... you stopped him moving."

Jon nodded, lowering her warm, tingling hand to her side and taking the other, heating it the same way he'd done to the first. It quickened Sansa's breathing, in fear and something else, but she made no move to stop him, afraid of what he'd do if she tried.

"I'm still learning the things I can do," he said quietly, his eyes on their hands.

The pressure in her head increased slightly, inflaming the pounding ache that was already there. Sansa whimpering, jerking away and causing her head to bang back against the door. Jon's eyes snapped up briefly before looking back down. The pressure softened again.

"Did you know that Petyr Baelish had assassins lining the forests South of the Wall?" Jon asked suddenly, calmly. Sansa looked at him, her lips parting, and Jon went on. "He'd meant to kill me before I made it home. Not that it ever would have worked," he added, almost as an afterthought. Sansa opened her mouth to ask why not, but Jon went on. "The letter you received from the Night's Watch telling of my death was written on my orders. I'd known Lord Baelish would read the letter with the Night's Watch seal, and I knew he'd send off his men if he thought I was dead."

Sansa was stunned, but not as surprised as she could be. She'd suspected herself that Petyr wanted her family dead so she would have no one but him to count on. But how could Jon have known about it?

"So you weren't aware, then," he said to himself, so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

"Did you think I was?" she asked mutely, hurt that he would even entertain such a thought.

What did he think? That she was in cahoots with him? That she wrote the letter to lure Jon South and have him killed?

Jon didn't answer, and Sansa clenched her jaw, reminded of the first day he'd arrived and when they'd spoken in the Great Hall. She'd brought up the letter from the Night's Watch, and Jon had seemed unperturbed. He'd not told her any of this.

"So when I asked you about it before, you lied to me on purpose," she said, not a question.

"I wasn't sure whose side you were on."

She didn't know why that hurt her so much. She said nothing on it, dropping her eyes. Her crying had stopped, but she felt like she might start again. How could he think she would have been in agreement with assassinating him? Even if they weren't close, how could he think she'd ever want him dead?

Jon paused in his touches, but quickly resumed. His skin on hers was embarrassing now more than anything. They were apparently more distant from one another than even she'd known, so all his touches elicited in her was shame and vulnerability. But she did feel a little emboldened by the fact that he was still warming her hand, not tearing it off or snapping her wrist, so she felt comfortable venturing even slightly. Maybe he would tell her the truth now.

"And Ramsay's screaming?" she asked. "Did you lie to me about that, too? Did you somehow make it so only I heard him?"

It took him a moment, but Jon nodded.

"And ... was it you who came to my door afterward?" she asked.

He nodded again, slower this time. Something shifted in his expression, something that she couldn't place, but it made her look away. She'd trusted him. She'd trusted him, and he'd been lying to her the whole time. What else had he lied about?

A moment later, he carefully released her. She felt like every nerve ending in her hands were activated, aware ... searching for that warmth again. Her eyes were cast to the ground, but she noticed his move to her face.

"Why are you telling me all this now when you didn't before?" she asked.

His response was instant, without thought.

"Because I want you to be able to trust me."

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling softly.

"Then you should have been honest from the start," she said, dropping her head back against the door. "What am I supposed to think with all this, Jon? Lord Baelish saved my life, and you burned him alive."

"He wouldn't have had to save you from Ramsay Bolton had he not sent you to him in the first place."

Her eyes flicked to his. He was so close, and she could only hold his gaze for a moment before looking away again. She still didn't know where he was getting any of this information from. How he knew that Petyr had given her to the Boltons, how he knew she didn't want to marry, which she couldn't remember ever telling him. But she didn't think he would even give her an answer if she asked. And if he did, she had no way of knowing whether it was the truth.

"You still don't trust me," he said.

"How can I?" she asked, a bit sharper than she'd intended. "You're different than you ever were, you've lied to me over and over, you've _brutally_ murdered two people in three days. I don't know you. A normal, human man cannot create fire with a wave of his hand," she said, her entire body hot all over, and then she was crying again.

"Sansa."

She shook her head, brows knit tightly together.

"Who are you?"

Jon's eyelids dipped, nearly a blink.

"You know who I am."

She squeezed her eyes shut, but didn't counter him. 

"I don't want to talk like this," she said quietly. "I don't want to talk in front of a man's smoking, charred corpse."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but she felt him step back.

"You can go," he said. "I'll deal with Lord Baelish."

Her eyes snapped open again.

"That's it?" she asked, stunned. "You just killed someone, and that's it? How are you so calm?"

Jon clenched his jaw.

"If you knew the things he thought about you, you'd not be so upset."

"You can't  _possibly_ know what he thought about me," Sansa said, eyes wide. "He never would have told you  _anything_ about that."

Jon's mouth closed and he clenched his jaw, saying nothing. Sansa was not done.

"What do you think's going to happen when people find out you're the one who killed him? What then?"

"They won't find out," said Jon.

Sansa couldn't believe his irrational confidence.

"I suppose a burned body indicates a natural death, does it?"

Jon said nothing, and Sansa shook her head.

"People have already linked you to Ramsay, I've heard them talking about it. They're not stupid. They'll figure out this was you."

"Will you tell them?" he asked evenly, eyes boring into hers.

" _Gods_ , Jon, no!" she cried, offended and hurt and embarrassed all at once. So it wasn't just her who couldn't trust him. It went both ways. "We're supposed to be family! Why are you treating me this way? What have I done to give you so little faith in me?"

She knew the answer as soon as she asked, though. She'd been horrible to him when they were younger; not always, but enough. It was all he'd known of her from the moment he left for the Wall until the moment he arrived back a few days ago. He'd thought she'd not changed. Despite how different he was, he'd assumed she'd still be a bratty youth.

She rushed on before Jon could interrupt her.

"I didn't tell anyone about what you did to Ramsay because I didn't want them to have a low _opinion_ of you, and yet you think I'd tell them of this? What about ten minutes ago when I said I wanted us to be closer? Does that somehow suggest to you that I'd turn on you?"

"You don't appear very happy with tonight's events," he said calmly.

Sansa huffed, pushing away from the door.

" _Should_ I enjoy the sight of my brother committing savagery?"

Jon looked like he thought so.

"You were pleased with what I did to Ramsay Bolton."

"That's different," she said, voice sharp. "Ramsay tortured me. And I wasn't  _pleased_ to see it, I was only glad to be rid of him."

Jon's careful expression cracked just slightly, but Sansa saw it. It was enough to frighten her back to submission.

"I know it when you lie, Sansa. You make it very obvious."

She closed her mouth, swallowing. She wasn't lying. Brutality was hard to stomach for her, even when it was against someone who'd brutalized  _her_. But she'd despised Ramsay. He deserved everything Jon had done to him.

"I'm telling the truth," she said weakly. "I've been tortured myself. Seeing others tortured reminds me of it."

Jon appraised her for a moment before nodding once, gently casting away his eyes.

"I'll do it without your audience next time," he said.

Sansa stilled. "Next time? Do you plan on there being a next time?"

He looked at her blankly, staring for a moment too long.

"Aye, I do," he said, voice cold. "There will always be another obstacle."

 _Obstacle to what?_ she wanted to ask, but she was wary, suddenly, by the dark way he was looking at her that she might fit the bill of 'obstacle'. She had no idea what he wanted, or what she might stand in the way of, but it was hard to imagine he wasn't somehow referring to her. No matter how hard she stared at his face, she couldn't read it. He just stared back, features settling back into numbness. She'd rather see rage there than nothing. She'd rather see anything at all than nothing. Why was he so inhuman?

"Are you dead?" she asked, a tremor in her voice. She hadn't meant to ask it, but her brain had a mind of its own.

Jon took a long time to answer.

"Not anymore."

Her eyes dropped down to his chest, the space above where his heart should be, and then she met his gaze once again. It was steady and hollow, as it almost always was. If his brain was working, his heart should be, too. If his heart was working, then he was alive, and he was still human. That was how it worked, wasn't it?

Propelled by a spark of courage, Sansa strode quickly toward him, perhaps too closely, and placed her hand over his left breast, slightly to the center. Her own heart was hammering against her ribs, thinking he'd take her arm and bust it, but he stood inhumanly still, looking at her, letting her. There was no mistaking the steady pulse of his heart beneath her hand. It was a healthy, strong beat, impossible to miss. Swallowing, still afraid, still waiting for his reaction to her boldness, she lifted her hand to the warm skin of his neck, two fingers feeling out for the delicate pulse there. It appeared after a moment of searching, just as strong as it was over his chest. And then she lifted her fingers a final time, this time to his temple, just to make sure, just to make absolutely certain that his pulse thrummed everywhere. It jolted beneath her fingers there, too, beating once every second or so. So he had a pulse. His heart was beating. As he'd said, he wasn't dead anymore.

"Satisfied?" he asked softly.

She drew her eyes to his. They were close, too close, but neither moved away.

"You really were resurrected, weren't you?" she asked on a whisper.

"I told you I was."

He was a man, nothing more than a man; a powerful one, but a man nonetheless. His hands licked flames into Petyr Baelish's skin, but they were soft whenever they touched her. He'd slaughtered Ramsay Bolton with these hands. He'd warmed her skin with these hands.

Sansa lifted her eyes to his, finding them just as warm as his skin. Up close, it was easier to see emotion in his face. But she could see the smoke still rising behind him, could smell the putrid fumes of burned skin, and the moment shattered. She withdrew her hand from his face and stepped away. This was not the Jon she remembered. The Jon she remembered couldn't start a body on fire with nothing but a wave of his hand. He was not 'just a man', no matter how hard she wished he was.

She clutched her skirts to hide the way her hands were trembling. 

"Resurrection is unnatural," she said, swallowing.

Jon nodded. "Aye, it is."

He stared for a moment longer before he lifted his hands to the front of his tunic to start pulling his ties free.

"You might wish to change your clothes," he said, turning his back on her. "They'll smell like a corpse."

Since the pressure in her head was made noticeable by the constant dull ache, she felt it when it left. It was the same moment Jon dismissed her.

Sansa's lips parted, her breath halting as a sudden thought overtook her.

Petyr felt a pain in his head, in the back of his head, just like Sansa. And then Jon killed him.

Sansa's breath left her in a  _whoosh_. A shiver rocked down her spine, her lower lip trembling slightly as she stood stock-still, watching the back of Jon's arms move as he undid the laces of his tunic. He turned his head over his shoulder without looking at her.

"Is there anything else?" he asked quietly.

She'd been hurt by the fact that Jon didn't care about her headaches, that he'd dismissed them as nothing, but was it because he was the one giving them to her? Was he trying to kill her?

She felt like she couldn't breathe.

_Run, Sansa, run!_

"No," she said, every ounce of her focus on maintaining an unwavering voice. "I'll leave you, then."

She turned and opened the door. Jon's voice carried across the room.

"I'd like to sup with you tonight in your solar," he said. "It seems we have some more things to discuss."

She froze with her hand on her door, schooling her features before looking over her shoulder. He was facing her, tunic loose and ties undone. He pulled the garment over his head, eyes on hers. Sansa's heart was pounding so hard that she was afraid he would hear it. Her throat was tight and begging her to swallow, but she didn't dare. She was too paranoid he would catch on to the fact that  _she'd_ caught on. He might kill her then and there before she could tell anyone else.

"I'll let the cook know," she said.

When he only continued to watch her, Sansa bowed her head lightly and left. She took pains not to run down the hall lest he hear it, but when she was far enough away, closer to her rooms than his, she took off. She barricaded herself inside her chambers when she arrived, and fell back against the door, chest heaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm in way over my head with dark!Jon, guys. This shit is hard. Kudos to all the other authors of dark Jon fics because damn.
> 
> Also I'm sorry my chaps are so long. I didn't give myself enough set up chapters so I tried to cram everything into three of them, oops. The next few are going to be a lot shorter to make up for it. And also thanks for reading even though I write too much, I'm really grateful xx


End file.
